Two Lives
by Casscaro
Summary: This is a post-AtS "Damage" stand-alone story which may become a short series. Can't seem to leave it alone.
1. Parallels

He had a lot of time to think, lying in the hospital bed, linked up to all the drips and machines that they seemed to think he needed. Not the way he preferred to take his blood, but then it always tasted odd out of those bags anyway. The drugs worked – mostly. Kept the pain sort of bearable, even if he sometimes wished they'd just take them away and let it hurt – let the pain stop the thinking. He'd asked the pretty nurse if she could maybe just give him enough to knock him out – even gave her his best smile, full-on bad boy charm – but she'd muttered something about how much drug you needed to KO a vampire, and how dangerous it was. Dangerous for who? Hardly going to kill him, now, was it?

The place where they'd joined him back together itched like hell. He gritted his teeth and tried to move his arms, but nothing happened. He let out a frustrated sigh. Almost worse that being a ghost. No, not that bad. And it wasn't going to last – a few weeks and a combination of Wolfram and Hart mojo and vampire healing ability and he'd be as good as new. Back to normal. And then it would be easier.

Easier to keep moving, keep fighting, keep annoying the _hell_ out of Angel – keep your mind away from where it wants to go. Because he was Spike – all snark and attitude and as hard as they come. Yeah. Better believe it. Well, somebody better, because basically? At times he couldn't.

Times like this. Sometimes... sometimes if he forgot to try hard enough... she was there. He could call up the image of her so clearly, he could smell her, taste her, almost hear her. And seeing her, even in his mind, was so beautiful but so very painful, he could hardly bear it.

So why not seek her out, follow his blood? What was he afraid of? He'd used the excuses – how do you come back after an exit like that one, how could he just turn up all fit and undead after that, what would that make of what he did - but even to his ears they sounded feeble.

The thing is... the _thing_ is... he'd made his peace. He really had. Last year he had taken a good long look at himself and he knew she'd never love him. Not really love him, not the way he loved her, and because of what he'd learnt about himself - because of what he had been, what he was - that was... _right_... it was as it should be. He could love her, give her whatever she felt she needed from him but he could do it without any expectation. Way it should be. Made it easy... strike that... _easier_. And then, at the last possible moment, when it was too late to matter, she had said the three words he had known he'd never hear. And, despite what he'd said back there on the Hellmouth - what he'd said to save them both the pain - there was a tiny part of him that wanted to believe her; the hard, bright little hope that wouldn't bloody well die. And the hope that she could... maybe... really love him... sometimes it was all that held him together. Or maybe it was what broke him apart. He couldn't tell any more.

Mostly he was scared. Scared of what he'd find she'd become in her new life. Scared there was no place for him anymore. Scared that maybe she'd come to him, only because of what they _had_ shared, not what they _could_ share. And he didn't want to go back.

So he hoped that the boy wouldn't let his excitement and the need to be the big I am carry him away. Hoped he wouldn't spill the beans to Buffy. But in the quiet moments, alone with his heart, half of him hopes he does.

And that, maybe, she'd come.

xxxxxx

Andrew didn't even manage to hold out until he got back to Europe. He was so full of his triumph in LA and so very keen to tell Buffy how well he'd managed, that it was inevitable he would be unable to stop such momentous news slipping out. Spike was back. Hero worship shone in his voice.

And strangely – among the raging of emotions she felt when he let spill the fact that Spike had helped him with Dana – the one thing she didn't feel was surprise. Andrew had blustered and stammered when he realised what he had said and then pretended that he was losing the connection. He had turned his phone off, but Buffy hadn't tried to call back anyway. Wasn't ready to talk. Wasn't even sure she was ready to think.

Easier to keep moving, keep fighting, keep working with the slayers, keep yourself wrapped up in your sister – keep your mind away from where it wants to go. Because she was Buffy. Self-contained, in control, too strong to let it beat her down. And sometimes she believed it. But most times she didn't.

She'd dream of him. Not as often as before, but often enough. Often enough to keep the hurt alive, despite her attempts to bury it. She had wanted to have good memories of him. Memories of his smile, of how he understood her better than she understood herself, memories of the feel of him against her – and memories of what he did, for her... for everyone. But the good memories were drowned in a sea of what should have been, in the agony of wishing... wishing she could have made it different. Because he hadn't believed her and, in truth? She wasn't sure she had believed it herself. But what she'd felt back then, in those last few moments with him, had been the most wonderful and powerful thing she had ever felt and the only word she had for it was... love.

Mostly she was scared. Scared of what she'd find he'd become. Scared there was no place for her anymore, that he would be beyond her. That she had truly lost him. Because she doesn't think she could bear that.

So she hopes that Andrew didn't tell Spike about the bad times after the Hellmouth, when he'd caught her weeping for her lost chances and her new life. About the reason she fled to Europe. About why she couldn't rest in London. But in the quiet moments, alone with her heart, half of her hopes he did.

And that, maybe, he'd come.


	2. Convergence

The meeting with Andrew stirred it all up, set the thought in motion, but it was the phone call from Giles that was the trigger. He'd listened to the calm, reasonable words of the watcher, heard the unease under the perfunctory words of praise, the threat in the advice. He'd listened, but he'd said nothing, and as Giles' voice had tailed away, he had quietly hung up the phone.

It was easier to stay with Angel. Wouldn't admit it to the sod's face, naturally, but he... wasn't sure he was ready not to be there. _Lame or what?_ The thing was... _the thing was_... Angel was his rock – his one solid reference in the madness of the world he'd been thrust back into. Their history, everything they'd shared, the cut and thrust of their relationship, the half hate, half lo... whatever – went back a long way. It was reassuringly constant, despite everything. Despite everything, Angel was still bloody lame and his hair still grew straight up. And he knew where he stood with Angel - mostly.

But Buffy? All his certainties, all the truths he had faced up to over the long months leading up to that day – the acceptance that he could be her confidant, her comfort, her champion even, but she could never love him; that in the end, when he had found his peace, it was enough – all of them had been blown away at the Hellmouth._ I love you_. The words that now tore him apart, gave him hope he was afraid to have, hope that hurt more than all her words of denial. So, what now? Stay here – get you kicks pissing Angel off and beating up the odd demon for the fun of it? Or... He'd told her once she was the one, and despite it all she still was. And he was still the fool for love – try as he might he wasn't going to change that – but he wasn't fool enough to go back. And he wasn't sure there was a way forward either. But there was one thing he knew he had to do.

_xxxxx_

The phone call from Andrew had started the longing, but it was Giles who was the trigger. He'd turned up on her doorstep within hours of Andrew leaving LA. She'd listened to his reasonable words, his calm arguments, heard the reluctance underlying the understanding, the plea and the persuasion. She'd listened, and she'd nodded, but her eyes told him she was closed to him. Giles knew she was beyond him in this – she'd make her own decisions, and the thought of those decisions weighed on him.

It was easier to stay with Dawn. She would never tell her this, but Dawn kept her grounded – she relied on Dawn much more than Dawn relied on her. Dawn was her one constant point of reference in the confusion that was normality. Their relationship, despite its roots, was _familiar_ – normal, sisterly – full of arguments and laughter, secret-sharing and secret-keeping, caring and loving. Reassuringly constant, despite everything. Despite everything, Dawn had grown into a beautiful and well-balanced young woman, and the pride of this warmed Buffy's heart. Sisters and more - they understood each other.

But Spike? She hadn't tried to understand, not during the long months last year. Too many responsibilities, too much fear, too little hope, no time to see what was happening. Until there, at the Hellmouth, with the world falling around them – then she'd seen. Then she knew. Too late – and the pain of would have destroyed her had she let it. It would be easier to stay where life ticked by and you could lock the pain away until, eventually, it became bearable again – mostly. But he was back, and maybe it wasn't too late... but, oh, what if it was? She was afraid of what she might find; afraid of he had become, afraid of what she had become. But she knew what she had to do.

_xxxxx_

Angel had asked him where he was going. Was he going to Europe? Was he going after Buffy, because, frankly... Spike had stopped him with a snarl, told him he was _fed up_ with holier-than-thou Angel and his whole bloody crew, and he just needed to get away because otherwise he'd go completely out of his tree and it was really none of Angel's _damn_ business if he was going back to renew the pillow talk with the slayer, because, after all, Angel was _well_ out of favour with his ex-honey... Angel had winced and Spike had relented and sighed, and told him he hadn't the first bloody idea where he was going, but he needed to be somewhere else. They'd locked eyes for a moment, then Angel had given a brusque nod and a half-hearted attempt at wishing him ill and hoping he'd stay wherever it was he ended up and not bother coming back to LA, and by the way? Don't touch the Viper. If he knew Spike was lying, he chose not to say anything. The thing was - Spike knew exactly where he was going.

_xxxxx_

Dawn had asked her where she was going. Was she going to LA? Was she going to see Spike, and was she really sure, because, in Dawn's opinion ... Buffy had stopped her with a sigh. It had been a hard few months and now... this. She just needed to get away, to think; she needed time alone without any well-meaning advice from family and friends... Dawn had winced and Buffy had felt a pang of guilt and hugged her hard. She told her she really wasn't sure where she was going, but it wouldn't be for long. They'd locked eyes for a moment, then Dawn had given a slight smile and made a half-hearted joke about finding somewhere with good shoe shops and hoping she'd stay somewhere where she could maybe find her a rich and handsome man, and she was _not _to forget to phone, because, you know, she'd just worry. If she knew Buffy was lying, this time she chose not to say anything. And as Buffy kissed her goodbye, the lie lay hard and heavy inside her – she knew exactly where she was going.

_xxxxx_

He had forgotten how far it was. The road through the desert stretched ahead, blindingly bright in the sun despite the necro-tempered glass of the Viper. For the first few hours he'd cranked up the music, car throbbing to Billy Idol, The Pistols and The Clash. He'd thrown back his head and sung along, with the fierce glee of freedom resounding in his voice. But once he'd hit the desert the music didn't feel right and he'd driven on in silence, subdued by the emptiness around him. For the last hour he hadn't seen another car. Come to think of it he hadn't seen a living thing – not a bird, not a beast – not even road-kill. Must be getting close, then. And the road stretched on, and the car growled softly, and the miles passed. And he was almost there.

_xxxxx_

It felt strange to be back. To be... _home_... she supposed. Good old US of A. Except it wasn't really home, was it? There was no home, not any more. She picked up the hire car from the airport, still proud of her new license (_Hey! Look at me! Buffy's all grown up!_), took a deep breath and hit the LA highway in the deepening twilight. She had this theory that if she saw... _it_... at dawn, maybe it would help. Maybe the sight of a new day rising over the scars of the past would give her hope for the future. Maybe it would give her the confidence she needed to do what she had to. Maybe it would give her back the fire she'd lost when she lost him. So she'd driven through the night, hypnotised by the headlights of the car on the smooth surface of the road in front of her, the thought of what she would find a knot of pain in her chest.

_xxxxx_

He stopped the car by the side of the road. The sun was almost down and the sky at the horizon was painted in brilliant hues of red and orange. Trapped in the glass and concrete jungle of LA, he'd forgotten how vivid the sunset could be. He leaned back in the bucket seat of the car, and lit a cigarette, gleefully blowing the smoke around the car, knowing how much the lingering smell would annoy Angel - if he went back. And that's why he was here. To get – what was it they called it? Oh, yeah – closure. _Poncy word_. Put it behind him. Move on. That was supposed to help, wasn't it? Christ knew he needed all the help he could get.

It was long after the sun had finally slipped below the horizon that he got out of the car, stretching and easing stiff joints. He looked down the road to where the tarmac ended, to where Sunnydale had once begun and where now there was... what? He'd never seen it - sort of heard about it, but never actually seen it. The moon had risen, bright and full, and the extent of the crater was becoming clearer. He let out a low whistle. Well, bloody hell – _I _did _that_? He lit another cigarette, frowning at the unsteadiness of his hands, and stood in the moonlight looking at the scarred landscape. Home sweet home. Squaring his shoulders, he strode forward to the crater's edge.

_xxxxx_

She stopped the car in the middle of the road to nowhere. Outside, the sky was crystal clear, the sheets of stars dazzling – she'd forgotten, after just a few months beneath the darkened air of Europe, how bright they could be here. Taking a deep breath, she opened the car door and stepped outside. The cool air was clean and soft on her skin – untainted. The moon was full, casting strong shadows over the empty landscape. She saw the empty car parked by the side of the road, glanced over at it as a slight breeze raised a swirl of dust by the open door. She wrapped her arms around herself and started to walk forward.

She halted a few steps back from the crater edge, hugging herself against the ache in her heart. Too many lost dreams, too many shattered hopes - too many memories vied for attention. But one memory was strongest of all; a memory of love and fire, of hope and loss, and the gift of a life. And it hurt. Then she heard the rasp of metal and a muttered curse so familiar she gasped. Stepping forward, she looked down into the crater.

_xxxxx_

Finding the sign had helped. He had smiled, remembering how often he'd demolished it in the past, and for a moment he'd forgotten the rest. He jumped down on top of it, cursing and staggering as it shifted under his weight, wondering if there was any way he could take it with him. There was a sudden gasp, an odd sound in the quiet of the desert night. And although he had no reason to hope, his eyes searched the crater rim.

_xxxxx_

There was the old "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. And there... standing on it, gazing up at her, heartbreakingly beautiful in the moonlight...

_xxxxx_

The moonlight was strong, throwing shapes and shadows into sharp relief. And there... silhouetted against the shining sky, hand pressed to her mouth...

_xxxxx_

_You came._

And for a long moment, time stood still.


	3. Infinity

He was looking at her the way he did the night she came back, when the awe and wonder in his stunned blue eyes had been the first thing to break through the horror and touch her. Then, in that moment, she'd seen his heart. She'd looked away – lost and confused, afraid of the love that shone in his eyes when she had the taste of the grave in her throat and no right… _no right_… to be loved like that. Now she searched for it, for a glimmer of what used to be. She was still lost, still confused, buried by her memories – afraid the love would no longer shine for her and no right… _no right_… to hope.

_Ah, Spike, where have you been? What happened to you?_ The slient words ached in her throat, and the small child at the core of her being cried – _Why did you leave me?_

He looked the same - the same wonderful eyes, a gleam of cerulean in the night-greyed landscape, the same knife-sharp cheekbones, the same softly parted lips – her dream-phantom made flesh. "Spike?" Her voice was a breathless whisper on the night air.

"Buffy," he said softly, his eyes fixed on hers.

She looked at him a moment longer in silence. "Andrew…" her voice tailed away, unsure and hesitant.

"Figured." A half smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

She gave a small nod. _No words – no words for this_. All the speeches, all the things she wanted to say, the things she had practised in her head, all the "sorry"s, all the "missed you"s, all the "I love you… _ah, God,_ Spike I love you"s… they weren't enough. She was so scared that the wrong word would break the moment and lose any slim chance she had to make it right; because more than anything in the world she wanted to make it right between them. But suddenly she hadn't the first idea how – or even what "right" was. So she stood there, with a thousand words and emotions churning uselessly in her mind, and waited for him to save her.

_xxxxxx_

She was looking at him as if one wrong move from her would send him scattered away on the wind. So pale in the moonlight, she stood with one hand pressed to her throat, eyes huge and luminous and fixed on his, a ghost of his memories. He had never seen her look so open, so vulnerable, so fragile – so _human_.

_Ah, love – is this what a normal life has done to you? What happened to you?_

"I didn't expect…" he stopped, unwilling to trust his voice.

"No. No… me neither." Still little more than a whisper.

He hadn't the words. The reality of her was so much harder to bear than the dreams of her had been. All the practised arguments, all the whys and wherefores he'd beaten out in long, dark, lonely nights with only a bottle for company now fled his mind, to be replaced by a longing he couldn't let himself acknowledge. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right – but that didn't stop it hurting. So he stood in silence, drowning in the sight of her, with the cold hard certainty of what he had to do a bitter ache in his heart. He stood and waited for the strength to do it.

_xxxxxx_

In the silence of the silver moonlight, she held out her hand, reaching down to him over the crater's edge. As he took her hand, the intensity of the feelings that the touch of him brought took her breath away. The world shifted beneath her feet and she was half surprised not to see flames licking around their entwined fingers. She pulled him up, brought him to stand next to her, and for a moment they stood, hands and eyes locked. Then he dropped her hand, and the sudden loss of him almost made her cry aloud. Every fibre of her body ached to touch him, but as her hand reached towards him again he dropped his eyes and half turned away, gazing back out over the crater. Buffy froze, confused and unsure. She watched the play of muscles in his averted face, the tightening of his jaw line. She couldn't read his mood and she felt unnerved. It struck her how, at the start, she'd always thought it easy to read him. She knew better now. She'd thought it easy because she'd never really tried to see beneath the surface, never cared enough to look properly. This Spike, this being with the subtle multilayers and nuances of emotion behind the brash shield he presented to the world – had he always been here? Why had it taken her so long to see it?

He drew a deep breath, let it out on a long sigh. "So, this is all that's left of Sunnyhell?"

She followed the line of his gaze, outwards over the shattered boulders and debris. "All there is. All down there." _All those shops, all gone. The Gap, Starbucks, Toys "R" Us…_ she winced at the memory. "The school, my house, your place… although I guess that was bordering on the condemned anyways."

"Hey!" He turned with a mock frown. "Have you know I was very proud of my crypt! Had it all real homey like."

She smiled at him. "It was… cosy. For a crypt and all." They smiled at each other, shared memories.

He looked away again, nodded at the crater. "Who didn't make it?"

She sighed, hugged herself against the memory. She knew the names of her fallen – or she did now. It had hurt her so badly at the role call after the Hellmouth to have to rely on Giles to tell her their names, some of them – God, they'd died at her command and she hadn't known them. She named them now for Spike, watched the spark of recognition for each, saw clearly that he'd known their names – known each one of them – in his short comments, a few words for each, and sadness for them. "And… and Anya, of course." she ended.

"Anya?" He sounded shocked. "Anya didn't make it?" She shook her head, watched the pain build in him for the lost ex-demon. "They didn't tell me."

"She got caught in the thick of it. A Bringer… Anya saved Andrew's life." She swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. _Which is more than I could do for any of the ones who fell… for you._

He turned away again, but not before she saw the glint of tears in his eyes. "She deserved better," he said softly.

"They all deserved better. You…" she hesitated and he turned to look at her. "Could I have made it different?" The words poured from her suddenly, the fears that kept her awake at night and tortured her sleep. "I keep going back over it…you know…could I have done anything. Was there something I should have said? Something I didn't do that would have stopped it… that would have saved you…I keep thinking…" her voice trailed away. _Every night I save you._

He frowned slightly. "Saved me?"

"You didn't have to… you shouldn't have had to…"

"What? Die? Already dead, love, remember?"

"Go…" she whispered. _Leave me_, she cried inside.

For a moment they stood in silence. "Buffy, it wasn't yours to decide. It wasn't yours to do anything differently, or change the way it happened." He was looking at her earnestly. "At the end, it wasn't down to you. It was my choice." He smiled. "End of the day, we all did what we had to. You, too."

She shivered against the memories and the cool night air. He frowned. "You're cold. Wanna go sit in the car?" They turned their backs on the crater and went to where the Viper sat waiting.

_xxxxxx_

The car smelt of Spike – leather and cigarettes and the underlying hint of something bittersweet and darkly addictive. They sat next to each other in silence, shared an awkward smile, each afraid to meet the others eyes.

"Why Rome?" Spike asked eventually.

"Because..." she paused._ Because London hurt. Because on almost every street corner there was a voice or a gesture or a word that reminded me of you and that you were gone and that you would never show me London like you said you would. Because Paris was for lovers, and I couldn't have mine. Because Rome was the first place with no reminders and the first place I could pretend._ "Because I always wanted a Prada handbag," she said as lightly as she could, not meeting his eyes. "And there were other attractions."

"Yeah?"

"Well, you know – Italian men. All big brown eyes, snake hips and Latin passions."

"Is that right?" He looked away with a frown and she felt the quick joy of hope at the hint of jealousy in his voice. "Yeah, well. Don't fall for the snake hips. Few years of Mama's pasta and he'll be a built like an Italian shit house like the rest of 'em." He stared out of the window with studied nonchelance. "So – there's someone special maybe? Back in Rome?"

"No. Yes. Kind of." She shrugged. "Not special."

His jaw clenched then he turned to her with a smile. "I'm happy for you, pet. Really. Glad it's working out."

"Yeah. It's…" And because she couldn't lie to him, she looked away and said instead "Why did you come here?"

"Not sure. I'd never seen it – what was left." He stared ahead at the crater. "Quite something, huh? One hell of a party."

"Well, if the measure of a good party is the mess left behind, I guess it couldn't have been better." She tried a light laugh, winced as the other meaning in her words hit her. _The mess you left behind…_ "Why didn't you let me know you were back?" Trying hard to keep her voice level, subdue the whining child of her heart.

He looked away, considering his words, then sighed, set his jaw and turned to her. "Buffy, I know you and me - it's never going to work out. You've got your new life. You've got the chance to be normal, have fat grandkids with some… safe, normal bloke. It's what you always wanted, right? It's what you deserve." He gestured out over the crater. "It's what that was about, part of it. And I'm not going to be part of anyone's normal life. It's not for me, love, is it? Not hardly normal." He turned back to her and his smile was gentle. "I'm glad that it was all worth it. Glad you got what you wanted. Oh, and that we saved the world and all, naturally." A half smile and shrug that tore at her heart.

She felt a cold sickness settle in her stomach, a flutter of panic in her throat. He did so much… _so much_… how could she belittle it by telling him she had been wrong?

They sat in silence, lost in memories, lost in the moment. "What now?" She asked eventually, her voice little more than a whisper.

"Oh, I dunno. Thought about doing a bit of travelling." He stroked the steering wheel. "Got me some wheels. Don't suppose Angel will come after me. But…" he sighed "Getting tired of moving on."

"You won't go back to LA?" _You won't stay with me?_

"No." He stared off into the distance for a moment. "No, I don't think so. Angel and me don't exactly see eye to eye." He glanced over at her. "On a lot of things." He looked away again. "Been doing a lot of thinking lately. Got an idea of what'll be the right thing to do." He turned back to her with a smile so calm and peaceful that her heart froze in her chest. _He doesn't need me._ The thought struck her like a thunderbolt. _He's… whole… he doesn't need me anymore_. And through the mind-numbing hurt all she could think was _Oh, but **I** need **you**! _

And she had no right to ask him. She had no right to expect. After all she did to him, after all he did for her, she had no claim on him.

"Will you… will I see you again?"

"I dunno, love." He winced. "Maybe. Bad penny and all."

"Oh." She looked down at her hands. "Maybe you could come to Rome. You know, meet up with the gang again. Dawn would love to see you."

"This'll be the Dawn who threatened to torch me in my bed, right?" Spike raised an eyebrow.

"That's the one." She smiled briefly. "You should see her. All grown up."

"Yeah, I'll bet she is." His voice was affectionate. "I miss the Bit."

"She did real well at school, you know? And she has wicked language skills. Giles says she'll be a real bonus to the new Council and she…" Buffy paused. _Is this what it's going to be? Discussing friends and family?_ She gave a small shake of her head. "It would be good to see you."

"Yeah. Maybe." He held her gaze a moment longer, his eyes unreadable, then looked up at the sky. "Not so many hours until dawn. I'd best get goin'."

"Oh! You'll need to find somewhere to hide up. There's a motel a way back, we could…"

He shook his head. "No need." He tapped his knuckles against the car windscreen. "Fancy necro-tempered glass, so no problem with the big pile of dust. Nothing but the best for the Evil Empire."

"Oh. Right." She looked down at her hands again to hide the bewilderment in her eyes. "I guess I…"

"Will you go straight back to LA?" His voice was tight, controlled.

"Yes. I guess." _Nothing to stay for_. "I might as well go straight…" _Straight where? Home? Where was home?_ "Dawn will be wondering what I'm up to."

"Say hello to her for me. Tell her…" he stopped and shrugged. "Hi."

She looked up at him, but he'd turned away, was fumbling with keys in the car's ignition, eyes averted. "I will," she said quietly.

He drew a deep breath he didn't need and turned back to her. "Buffy…" She held his eyes, willed him to say '_stay_'; but he gave a wry smile and shook his head. "It was... good… seeing you. And I'm glad it's working out. It's all for the best, yeah?" She nodded, despair taking all words. He reached up to touch her face and she flinched, afraid of what his touch might unleash in her. His hand dropped.

And suddenly she could bear it no longer. "Goodbye, Spike." She reached over and kissed him, quickly, lightly on his soft lips, turned away and climbed out of the Viper.

She walked slowly over to the rental car, the urge to turn back and run to him like a physical force tying her to the Viper. As she walked she found herself hoping, so fiercely it hurt, for just one move from him, one small gesture, one indication that he did – maybe - want her to stay. But as she slid behind the wheel, she heard the throaty roar of the Viper's engine start up and the sound of its tyres on the stone-littered surface of the road. He stopped the car level with hers, and their eyes met and held. Despite the wrenching, burning ache in her chest, Buffy smiled, because he deserved this – he deserved for her to smile for him, to wish him well without her, to tell him she was fine – to set him free. He watched her solemnly, then nodded and turned away. She watched as the car picked up speed and disappeared into the dawn half-light. Then she leant her head against the steering wheel and let the fire of her pain consume her.

_xxxxxx_

She didn't see him stop the car a few miles down the road. She didn't see him sit stone-still, jaw clenched, staring ahead at nothing. He didn't want her to see. He wanted her to be free, because that's what she deserved and that's what he was bloody well going to give her, because he might be stupid, but he wasn't so stupid to believe there was any other way – not any more. So she didn't see him throw back his head, eyes clenched shut at the pain of it all. And she didn't see his tears.


End file.
